Mooning Over My Hammy
by shalu
Summary: For the Love of OJward entry. Bella needs to sober up before going home. A late night stop at Denny's provides her with more than breakfast, thanks to an old crush. E/B
1. Mooning Over My Hammy

**For the Sake of OJward  
**

**Penname: **shalu

**Title: **_Mooning Over My Hammy_

**Pairing: **EdwardxBella

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything Twilight. Quit rubbing it in. Thanks to killerlashes and MrsTheKing for prereading/betafishing. Can you feel my hands on your asses?

* * *

I walk into Denny's around two-thirty in the morning. My buzz is not wearing off fast enough, and I really don't need Alice all up in my shit when I get home because I'm drunk. I love the girl, but my roomie is always paranoid about me coming home drunk. Pee on the carpet _once_ and Drunk Bella becomes a hazard. Not my proudest moment, but it taught me that moonshine, or whatever that version of it was, is _bad_.

Stumbling to an open booth, I slide my ass across the vinyl in the perfect way to make that loud vinyl-fart noise. _Awesome_. A couple tables over, a pair of idiot teenagers start giggling like they're stoned. Hold up—they _are_ stoned. _Moving on._

Ignoring Teen Spirit, I blink my eyes a few times trying to bring the menu in focus. A large plastic glass of water appears in front of me like magic. "Wow," I say.

"What?"

My eyes follow the trail of the low voice to see none other than Edward Cullen. _Fucking A, I really don't need to embarrass myself in front of the ONE GUY I always wanted in high school, but never got because I'm too much of a pussy—yes, I said PUSSY—to even talk to him not that it matters because he was untouchable anyway and who was going to pay attention to me? I mean I didn't move back to Forks until senior friggin' year, and by then, people are so into their own shit and cliques, I was lucky to have ANY frien—_

"Do you need medical attention?" I snap my eyes back to his beautiful face. Said beautiful face appears amused. This makes me a little dizzy ... the snapping of the eyes _and_ the beautiful face, that is. _Shit, I'm drunker than I thought._

"Uh, no. Just soberification," I answer, realizing that alcohol has effectively dissolved my verbal filter. I don't want to think about how many IQ points were killed off.

He snorts. I guffaw. He snickers. "Soberification, huh? Working for Webster's now, Swan?" _Holy Sweet Mother of God, Edward Cullen KNOWS MY NAME._

"You know my name?"

His face goes red. _LIKE ME! He's blushing just like I do! HAHA!_

"Aww, Edward, you are even more adorable_nomnom_ when you blush! I didn't even know—" Thank God in Heaven, I cut myself off, because that was gonna get off-the-charts mortifying. _I just said "adorableNOMNOM" to Edward Cullen in the Cookie Monster voice. I'm never drinking again._

My face predictably goes up in flames as my eyes bug out and my mouth hangs open, that weird closed-windpipe-yet-still-trying-to-breathe sound coming out. I think we're both happy when he just "ignores" it and clears his throat. I shut my mouth and try speaking again.

"Um, so ... yeah, so what are you doing here, Cullen?" I say, attempting to sound really casual and laid back. I sound a little squirrelly. _Heh-heh. SQUIRREL!_

"I work the night shift," He explains.

I feel my brows furrow as though I am in deep concentration. "But ... you ... you were, like, valedictorian," I state, as if this will have impact on his answer.

He raises an eyebrow. _Fuck, don't do that, man! I may crotchsplode right here!_ "I _was_, yeah. I just need a little extra money while I'm in med school—" His tone is the one you use when speaking to imbeciles.

"And the best way to do that is the shitty-ass night shift at Denny's? Why not bartend? Hotter drunk chicks and better tips."

For some reason, he blushes again. I really want to lick his face.

"Hardly," he laughs, looking down. He pauses awkwardly before looking me in the eyes to continue. "You're—"

"CULLEN! You have other tables!" We both turn our attention to ... _Holy. Shit._ It's Mike Newton. _Speaking of imbeciles..._

"Yeah, _one_, Mike," he retorts, walking off as if we weren't in the middle of the only actual conversation we've ever had. I hear him add, "Emmett will be off break in ten, and Sarah's got the counter."

I glance to the counter to see a sassy-looking redhead spiking some lady's coffee with Jack. I look to Mike to give him the hairy eyeball, but he is back to Windexing menus and therefore does not appreciate the awesome or the hairiness of said eyeball. Giving up, as my prolonged eyeballing is not being picked up by Meathead over there, I shift my attention back to the menu, which is still a little blurry.

_Wait, did he say Emmett? As in, Emmett McCarty? If Jasper Whitlock pops out of the back in a chef's toque, I'm obviously stuck in a _Twilight Zone_ rerun._

"You know you're going to get Moon Over My Hammy, so why are you even looking at the menu?" The voice is back. _God, I loved it whenever Mrs. Pemberley would call on him in AP Lit class to read a passage. I would always squirm in my seat so much that she'd ask if I needed the lavatory pass. Oh, by the way? Thanks for that, Mrs. Pemberley._

Looking up, Edward's sitting right across from me. There's also a huge glass of orange juice and three aspirin.

"I didn't order OJ," I say, brilliantly.

He smiles, all glorious white teeth and a partial dimple on one side of his mouth. "No, but it's a start in treating that bitch of a hangover you're gonna have."

Frowning, I ask, "Fuck-a-doodle-doo, am I that obvious?"

His eyes get all squinty when he laughs. "Well, yeah, a bit. But it's not stumblebum drunk. You may want to lower your voice, though."

"Was I that loud?" I shout and immediately slap a hand over my mouth. I remove it to whisper (_drunk-whispergiggle_), "Did you say _stumblebumble_?"

He drops his head and laughs into his hands. _Oh, the fantasies I've had about those hands... STOP, I'm going to be sitting in a pool soon, if ya know what I mean._

"Never mind, Swan. And hey, how are you even here by yourself? You didn't drive, did you?" He seems a bit alarmed by this possibility. That alarm tingles my ladybits.

"What? No," I groan. "The party I was at is—was down the block. I walked. I'm call cab. A cab. I'ma call a cab." _Stop speaking, for the love..._

"Tell you what, _I'll_ call you a cab," he says, sliding out to stand. "But first, you're gonna eat something."

"I'ma have Mooning Over Miami. With Bacon. LOTS of bacon, please. And a milkshake. Bacon." He snickers. I'm not sure why. I'm beginning to think everything I say amuses this man.

"You want bacon _and_ the breakfast?"

"Yeah."

"That's a lot of—"

"Awesome. It's a lot of awesome."

"Oookay. And did you say bacon milkshake?"

"That's disgusting, Edward. No, I take that back; it would probably be amazing. As a matter of fact," I say, suddenly speaking very clearly, "yes, a bacon milkshake."

He makes a face like he threw up in his mouth a little bit, but nods and heads toward the kitchen. I hear the stoners discussing the merits of bacon and how much they would like to own-slash-live at a place that served only bacon in its various incarnations as well as new inventions involving bacon. I whistle at them and give them the fingerguns. "I'm first in line, dudes."

They air high-five me from across the room. I give them the "rock on" bullhorns. I then pop the aspirin into my mouth and gulp down half the glass of orange juice. I think about Edward's hands on the glass and start having some bizarre, booze-fantasy about him which prompts me to start doing inappropriate things to the glass. Luckily, I realize this and stop the fetish show before someone notices. I get a wink from one of the stoners and cringe.

Ten minutes later, the stoners have left, and a gorgeously greasy pile of breakfast has arrived in front of me, save that the bacon is extra crispy. _Oh my God, did he make sure they did that? Because I didn't ask. I don't think. Hell, I'm in love. Again. _

After staring at the food for a split-second longer, I dive in like it's a contest.

"Anything else, Bella?" _He fucking said my name. Did you hear how he said my name? These panties are ruined._

Since I'm drunk, I figure now's the time to brave the embarrassment (considering that I've already been embarrassing myself for some time now). "You," I say (thankfully) with a mouthful of food.

"Pardon?"

I cough, choking on my stupidity. "I mean, _you_ sit down with me. Keep me company while I temper the drunkness with greasy deliciousness. You can have some of my bacon, if you like." _Or me. Preferably me._

Internally, I'm giggling like a ... well, like those stoners, because I have been reverted to my teenage, idiot self. _Don't judge. Edward Cullen does this to girls. Women. Eric Yorkie._

He smiles all crooked-like before sliding back in the booth. This time, _he_ makes one of those vinyl-farts. Unable to stop myself, I start giggling uncontrollably. "I'm sorry," I wheeze. "I did that when I got here. But it's funnier when someone else does it."

His face is draining of his second blush in my recent presence, though I can't say I remember ever having seen him blush before tonight—except maybe when Lauren Mallory shoved his hand down her top in the middle of gym class in attempt to get him suspended (for not asking her to prom). I prefer to think he blushed out of disgust. God only knew where _those_ sweater monsters had been.

"Thanks for your empathy," he says, sighing. He reaches toward my half-finished glass of orange juice. "Mind if I finish your OJ? I love it freshly squeezed."

_Cannot. Even. Process. This. Many. Dirty. Thoughts._

His eyes close as he guzzles down the deliciously tart juice, and I take this opportunity to ogle the softly chiseled lines of his face. My uterus is jumping up and down thinking about his stellar genetics. His jaw is angular, but not overstated—just strong. If I'm being honest, I tried to sketch it a few times in high school, but sadly, I am a crap artist, so they looked like the mutant love child of Steven Seagal and Robert Smith. They weren't good, let's just put it that way.

The serene look on his face launches me into another fantasy involving a claw tub filled with orange juice, naked Edward, my tongue, and a video camera. There may or may not be a rubber ducky (that vibrates).

I nearly drool as his tongue darts out and makes a circular swipe across his lips, catching the sweet overflow. He hums in pleasure.

_Good. Lord. It. Gets. Worse. HOW CAN IT GET WORSE? Please use that tongue on my girlyparts. Please. I'll pour orange juice on them if it entices you. _

"Stop it," he orders, pointing a long finger at me. _Shit. Did I say something out loud? Please, God. You wouldn't do that to me, would you?_ He's still pointing at me, the eyebrow raised. I restrain (_Hallelujah!_) from leaning forward and sucking on it. The finger. Or, hell, the eyebrow, too. I'll suck on—never mind. _Shut up._

He's not smirking or trying _not_ to laugh at me, so I'm pretty sure I am safe from current humiliation. "I meant the orange juice, and you and your boozy brain know it. I squeezed it myself."

I bite my lips together, but it's no use. I lose it, completely cracking up. You can't say stuff like that to a drunk person without expecting them to turn it dirty. He ends up laughing with me, so I don't feel so ridiculous. Before we can fully recover, Newton is standing in front of us.

"Cullen, I asked you to restock the napkins and marry the ketchups an hour ago. You think you can take care of that?"

As he barks orders, I can't help but to fixate on the now-empty glass still in Edward's hands and zone out into the fantasy I'd begun moments ago. Edward himself interrupts this vision when he stops Newton's rant.

"Mike," he replies, clearly feeling superior to La Newt (admittedly not a stretch), "I _did_ restock the napkins and ketchup an hour ago. Go check for yourself. It's not like there's a shitload of people in here, man. Relax. I haven't seen Bella in a long time, okay?"

Newton looks at me. "Oh, yeah. Hey, Bella. Didn't see you there."

I nod, deciding that I totally want to call him out. "Really? So why have you been staring at me since I walked in? You could have just said 'Hi.'"

I hear Edward snort as Newton turns purple and walks away quickly, albeit awkwardly as though he shat himself.

"That was mean," Edward says to me in such a way that I am sure he doesn't mean it.

"Didn't he and Jessica Stanley have three kids already?" I ask.

"I don't really want to talk about them," he replies, ignoring my question.

Suddenly, I'm all nervous again. _Damn you, Vodka, for abandoning me in my hour of need!_ "Oh?"

"I want to hear about you." He's smiling a lopsided smile and looking me in the eyes. I semi-panic, stuffing three or seven pieces of bacon in my mouth at once.

"Why?" The question is severely muffled thanks to the fuckton of bacon I just inhaled. _Damn, I'm one classy broad._

He's obviously amused, but his beautiful face still scrunches up in confusion as he repeats my question. "Why?"

Idiot-override is not working as some rogue part of my brain continues. "Yeah, I mean, we were never friends in high school," I begin, much to the horror in my head where a logical me is jumping up and down screaming, "_Let me out! Stop! Before it's too late!_'

"I think the only times we spoke were if we accidentally bumped into each other in the hallway. And that was only twice." _Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, I have Tourette's._ "Not that I counted." _Yeah, that helps your case._

He's staring at me like a fish out of water, mouth opening and closing without breath. I want to run away, but self-preservation stops me, as I would surely run into many obstacles and thereby injure the fuck out of myself as I attempt to do so. Because I am glutton for punishment and he still can't speak, I keep talking.

"I was never on your radar, Edward, and that's okay," I lie, simultaneously inventing a story about roofies and not remembering any of this. I have no idea why he is still sitting here. "I mean, popular guys like you didn't even set foot in the library, and I practically lived—"

"I was afraid of you." He says this so quickly and sounds so vulnerable, I stop and stare at him.

"Afraid of me?" _Dammit, I'm shouting again._ "Why on earth...?"

"You were smart, beautiful ... and you kept to yourself."

_Did I have an aneurysm? Or did he just say I was beautiful? Must be the booze._ "Beautiful?"

"Yes, Bella," he tells me, again with the "DUH" voice. "Beautiful."

_Melting._

"You shunned the popularity game, so I assumed you wanted nothing to do with me. You seemed totally disinterested." He dropped the words on the table like throwing down the gauntlet. Did I really come off as aloof back then? Like I was above it all? I supposed I could have. I only had a couple friends, and they never spoke to anyone either. That said, part of me wanted to slap him for being an idiot, and the other considered the table between us my only obstacle to jumping his bones.

"Well, you know what they say about assumptions," I snark, trying desperately to mask my combination of annoyance and flaming embarrassment. "Makes an ass of you."

"And me," he says quietly.

"That's right," I tell him. "Just you. Twice."

He laughs, I smile. "I ... don't really know why I never asked you out," he confesses.

_Well, shit. I think my hair is on fire._

"Asked me out?" My voice goes all "shrill harpy" here, alerting everyone—including the dishwasher who's having a smoke out back—that I am a freak. I clear my throat. "I mean, um, that is ... you wanted to ask me out?" It's a little ridiculous trying to be casual and smooth now, as I've so far done pretty well in illustrating my lack of smoothness.

"Yes!" he all but hisses back, perhaps a little embarrassed by my outburst. "I guess I figured you were into all the Rez guys." He shrugs, picking at a fork with his fingernails. "Rose said you were hooked up with Seth? Or that Jake Black kid, I think."

"What?" Luckily, I have reined in my volume, and this is not earsplitting. "_ROSE_ told you that? Your pernicious sister told you I was dating Jake?"

His eyes are huge now, and he looks a little afraid of me. "Yes, my sister told me, and she is not _pernicious_."

I raise an eyebrow.

"Okay, maybe sometimes," he relents. "But not anymore. She's grown up a lot."

"Oh, and _Jake_?" I make a few gagging noises, but stop myself because it kind of makes me feel like I _may_ actually barf soon. "Yeah, NO. Jake was like a brother. Our dads are friends, so we went to the Rez a lot. I love him to death, but that's just ... incestuous."

"What about Seth?"

I snort. Loud. Leaning forward, I take the opportunity to get a little cocky. "Edward," I say, kinda sultryish—_GO ME!_ "Seth, who is two years younger than me, by the way, was more interested in _you_. Get me?"

Realization dawns and he sits back against the booth, looking sheepish. "OH."

"Yeah, _OH._" I scoop up some more food and shove it in my mouth, marveling how awesome greasy breakfast tastes at three in the morning when you're drunk. I chatter on, happily. "I can give you his number, if you want. I'm positive he'd _love_ to hear from you. You'd make a cute coup—"

"BELLA." Edward's voice gets a little growly and forceful, and I have to stifle a moan. I have a sudden fantasy about being spanked, and I'm tempted to ask if he wants to have sex in his car.

"Edward," I return, my voice cracking. _Well, there goes the allure_.

"BELLA SWAN?" You may have guessed already. It's Emmett. "HOLY CHRIST ON A DONKEY!"

_I thought I was loud._

"Haven't seen you since high school, lady!" I am not lying when I tell you he drags me out of the booth and hugs me like we are long lost siblings ... who grope each other's asses. Except that I don't grope his ass. I, however, might have bruises.

When he finally sets me down, I lose balance and plop down rather unceremoniously onto the bench. "Uh, hi, Emmett. Didn't know you cared."

I'm more than a little thrown for a loop, since I was not friends with Emmett, either. Though, I did I tutor him for an algebra test or two.

"He's stoned, Bella," Edward says, rolling his eyes.

"Am not!" Emmett glares at Edward, not-so-subtly jerking his thumb over his shoulder at Newton, who is counting toothpicks.

"Right, I mean, Emmett is definitely not stoned." Edward speaks really loudly and over enunciates to properly demonstrate his sarcasm. He continues in his normal, pantysoaking voice. "Dude, your aunt _owns_ the joint, so I really doubt you could get fired."

"_Duuuuude_," Emmett retorts, and I realize I did smell the maryjane when he hugged me. "Esme stuck us with the night shift. Do you think she favors us at all?"

"I took it so I could study when it's slow."

Emmett stares at him, dumbfounded. "Then why the fuck am I here?"

"That is a great question, Em," Edward laughs, but gives him a strange look. I'm not the swiftest at the moment, but I think he wants him to leave us alone.

"You're such a dick, sometimes, Cullen," Emmett grumbles walking away, but not without grabbing a handful (read: most) of my hashbrowns. _Yes, WITH HIS HANDS._

"Did he seriously...?" I look at my plate, mourning the loss of my crispy, precious taters.

Edward grimaces. "I'm afraid so."

I push the dish away and focus on the extra plate that still has a piece of bacon or two left. I suck down the entire glass of water I have in seconds and decide that I am now somewhat sober. OK, less drunk.

"Hey, what happened to my bacon shake?" I ask, suddenly indignant.

"You were serious?"

"Yeah! It's like a breakfast blizzard!"

"_I'M ON IT, SWAN!" _Emmett hollers from the kitchen. I'm really getting a better appreciation for Emmett. He was never a bully in school, but his boisterous nature was overwhelming to a shy outsider like myself. Edward jumps up and jogs into the kitchen, disappearing. Five minutes later, he returns with a gloriously hideous vanilla shake with bacon crumbles and chocolate syrup drizzled over top in his hands. Emmett follows behind him.

"Whoa," I say, not unlike Keanu Reeves with a dash of Joey Lawrence thrown in. Edward laughs at me. "Don't even, Edward. You know you're gonna try it."

He considers this and nods as he sets it in front of me. "You're right; I'm far too curious."

"I'm having some. You realize this, yeah?" Emmett insists, holding a spoon in each hand.

"FINE," I snap. "But it's mine first." I spoon a big heap into my mouth. _Oh. My. God._ It is fantastic. I start humming and making orgasmatron noises, which really "intrigues" the both of them. I play it up a bit (because the looks on their faces are pretty damn funny) and wipe the excess from corner of my mouth with my finger, placing it between my lips and sucking with my eyes closed.

When I open my eyes, both guys are staring at me, mouths agape. "This is _delicious_," I say, a bit breathily. _HA! I am such a sexpot right now! Leave it to bacon!_ _HAHAHA!_

They were obviously not expecting that. Edward grabs a spoon from Emmett's hand and digs in. His face lights up similar to mine, sans the sex noises (which I find unfortunate. I'd really like to hear his sex noises). "Wow," he says, around a mouthful of awesome. "This is incredible."

Emmett snarls like a territorial mutt and plunges the spoon into the shake and gobbling it up. Seriously, half the shake is now gone. "HOLYFUCKINGSHIT, that is the best!"

At this eardrum-popping declaration, Newton comes charging over. "Keep it down! We have customers!" He points to an ancient, leather-faced woman at the counter, smoking Marlboro Reds. She turns and flips Mike the bird. The other waitress, Sarah, fills her coffee (with more Jack), smirking.

"Hey, Irene!" Emmett gurgles, waving like a kid. She winks at him, slurping her "coffee."

"Is the baby still not sleeping, Mike?" Edward asks, his tone all understanding.

Mike looks like a deer in the headlights. "No. She's teething," he admits. "I get home and Jess is exhausted, so I have to stay up and watch Christine and Tyler while she gets a nap. I barely get any sleep these days."

Edward claps a hand on his arm and says something sympathetic. I'm just a little taken aback. They converse briefly about his homelife and Mike walks away a little taller, if I'm being honest.

"He's not a bad guy," Edward declares quietly. "He just gets a little power-trippy when he's tired."

"You're so fucking _nice_, dude," Emmett mumbles, finishing off _my_ shake.

"DUDE!" Obviously, Emmett is affecting my vocabulary. "That was _mine!"_

He looks up, almost as though he didn't realize he was eating it. "Uh, yeah ... sorry about that."

I glare half-heartedly and wave him off. "Whatever. I'm suddenly very tired," I sigh and realize it's true. I have hit the wall. I slap a ten-dollar bill on the table. "Mr. Cullen, sir, would you please bring the car 'round?" I toss off a crappy British accent and blink a few times.

Edward smiles warmly at me and tosses the money back at me. There's a sudden dance in my pants.

"I'll drive you. Emmett and Sarah can spare me for twenty minutes," he insists.

Emmett cough-laughs, not trying to hide his insult to Edward's sexual stamina and/or staying power. "_COUGH_minuteman_COUGH!"_

"Ever the witty one, Em, thanks." Edward stands up and offers me his hand. I stare at it for a moment before putting my palm against his.

_Sweet baby Jesus..._ His hands are soft and warm, and I'm pretty sure this is the first time he's actually touched me. I immediately want more. More hands, more touching, more ... _Stop it. You're breathing heavy. This is embarrassing._

I stand up, trying not to grip his hand harder than necessary. Emmett pulls me into a bear hug, thereby disconnecting Edward and I. I sputter a bit, as Emmett is squeezing the life out me, quite literally—I cannot breathe.

"Sorry, Bella," Emmett says. "Good to see you. Seriously. We should hang out!"

I look at him in slight disbelief, but nod vaguely. Edward pulls his keys out of his waiter-apron-pocket thing and ushers me out. I'm pretty proud that I don't trip on anything or stumble. We get to his car, a beat up Land Rover, and he opens the passenger door for me.

It's a short drive to my apartment, so not much besides my address is exchanged conversationally (besides a possible "SexyBack" singalong—on my part, anyway), and before I know it, we're pulling up.

Uncomfortable silence settles in as nervousness starts to creep up my spine like a spider; I have the sudden impulse to flee. Before I can, Edward breaks the quiet between us.

"Bella, since I was such an idiot in high school, I'm not going to make the same mistake now," he begins. "Could I take you out sometime? Preferably soon, like, tomorrow?"

His expression is adorably unsure, as though he's positive I'll say no. I look forward and debate. Not whether I'm going to say yes, but whether or not jumping in his lap and laying the mack down is the right way to _say_ yes. I hear him sigh and prepare to accept rejection, and it dawns on me that I've taken entirely too long to answer. So I forgo the pros and cons list and get to steppin'. And by that, I mean I hurdle the armrest between us and land somewhat gracefully (enough for a still-not-totally-sober person) in his lap.

By divine guidance, I have managed to not crush his junk, which is great, because I'm hoping to get to know it very well in the near future. "Yes," I breathe before sealing my lips over his. It takes him a second to recover from the surprise of my actions, but when he does, _Mother of Pearl, _it is heaven_._ His lips are just as soft as they look, and I can taste the baconshake on his tongue—I tell you what: it tastes better on him. I suck on his bottom lip a bit, maybe nibble it, and I notice there's a little residual orange juice, too. _This man is fucking edible. Literally._

I feel his hands slip around my back and tighten, anchoring me to him as he tilts his head so he can lick my tonsils. They love it. In fact, they tingle. Tingling tonsils. I gigglesnort (or something, it's a bit obscured by the face-sucking), and he moves to separate. I attack, refusing to let this happen, and hum through my enjoyment instead of letting either of us speak.

There is little room to maneuver in this truck, but I'm not of the mind to care. As his tongue slides over mine, I shift a leg so I'm straddling him. I'm a little more comfortable now, so I focus back on the kiss, moaning into his mouth. My hands find their way into his hair, tangling in his locks. A groan vibrates through my lips as hands dip from my lower back over my ass.

Reflexively, I thrust my hips forward bringing me into direct contact with little Edward. Okay, let's be real, not so little. Regardless, not-so-little Edward is very happy to see me. Edward-Edward grunts, breaking from the kiss. "Shit," he curses, his voice hot and gravelly. "Bella..."

"Mmmm?" I manage, sampling his skin between his lips and earlobe, where I suck and nibble and lick. For that, _I_ get a little thrust action of my own and I gasp, "Edward!"

"We shouldn't..." he blurts, grabbing my attention. His eyes are forlorn. He doesn't _not_ want to, but he feels like we should wait or something. He's so gentlemanly. _And he is _SO_ going to cockblock me_.

"Right," I agree, faking agreement, because, let's be honest: I totally want to. Should I? I don't know, but at the moment, I have no problem with it. Doing my best to mask my disappointment-slash-rejection, I grab the doorhandle to open his door, but he stops me, his slender fingers wrapping around my wrist.

"Bella," he says with a shocking amount of tenderness, "I want to get to know you. Isn't that something worth doing first?"

"Dammit," I mutter. "Leave it to you to be completely logical. What are you, a girl? or a ... Vulcan?"

I did not mean to tack on that stupid, insulting question, but—what guy turns down getting laid? Since you ask, I'll tell you: it's Edward Cullen.

Laughter rumbles up his chest and he cracks up, leaning his face into my neck as he wraps his arms around me. The party in my pants is jumping up and down thinking the party in _his_ pants is ready to cohost one helluva soiree together. I'm loath to disappoint.

I release some ridiculous, horny whine when his lips meet my neck and start kissing, and I get confused. "Uh, Edward?"

"Hmmm?"

"Not that I'm not enjoying that, but I thought you were turning me down instead of turning me _on_?" He stops. "Again, that is. Or, more."

He places a soft kiss on my throat. "Bella, I want to. I want _you_. I just ... want to take my time with you."

I smirk, thinking I might not have to go and play with my battery-operated Edward. _No, I didn't name it Edward. It's Eric Northman. 'Cause the model name is Viking. Okay, this may be TMI. Sorry. Moving on._

His hands have slipped around to my sides. I grab one and slide it up my shirt just below my bra. "So, should I stay or should I go?" I giggle-gasp as his palm softly cups my breast over my bra.

"Jesus, Bella," he growls, his voice a low, rolling thunder. "How am I going to go back to work with a raging hard on?"

To emphasize his point, I rock my hips against said hard on, and it feels so good, I moan and repeat. Moan and repeat. I wonder if these instructions are tattooed on his dick along with an 800 number for additional assistance. I snicker-snort and the moan sounds sort of strangled and wrong. He doesn't notice because he is clenching his jaw and breathing hard through his teeth.

"Fuck, I..." He mutters, gripping my hips as I continue to move. His fingers slip underneath to touch my bare breast, rubbing back and forth over my nipple. "Are you ... no..."

"Edward," I pant, "I want you. I want this. You can wine and dine me tomorrow, but tonight—"

His lips silence me, attacking mine with twice the fervor. _Wow, give the guy an inch and he takes a—never mind. We all know I'm going to turn that into something dirty._

One of his hands leave me and I feel the seat slide forward—that is, backward. I end up leaning forward as it then tilts back. In seconds, hands are everywhere. Both the girls are getting serious attention, and I'm pretty set on getting Edward's shirt off, but he doesn't want to stop kissing me. I can't really complain about that, so I settle for feeling the planes of his chest and stomach with my hands underneath his shirt. I feel his hands shaking against me as he unbuttons my top, moving it to the side to caress my chest with his lips and tongue. I take the opportunity to explore his back, and I'm a little shocked how hot I find it when tracing his muscles there with my fingertips. I swivel my hips, grinding on him, and he moans. Loud.

It's my new favorite sound.

I change tactics and go for his fly. That damn waist-thing is in the way. I try to get it undone myself (which allows me to shove my boobs in his face, which he enjoys), but I think I just make it tighter. _Say "NO" to peens in bondage! _He rushes to untie it in the back, and I lean back to let him remove it. My hands are on the buttons before he can get there, so he goes for the buttons on my pants, and I realize it's gonna be a bitch trying to get those off my legs in this space.

"Edward, in the back. Now," I order, pushing off to climb through the middle. The back has no seats in it, just a flat bed with some sort of padding on the floor. _Works for me._

As I flip over, Edward is already on top of me, his hands on my waistband, tugging. It feels like forever, but my pants are quickly removed, followed by the Wonder Woman underoos. _Kidding. Okay, maybe not._ He laughs at my awesome underwear and digs a condom out of his wallet after shedding his jeans.

He doesn't seem to get out of his pants fast enough for me, so I do my best to help, and we end up laughing at each other. He lets me put the condom on, hissing and groaning his approval as I do it.

Both on our knees now, we press ourselves together and kiss slowly, mouths moving purposefully. He embraces me and lays me down, settling himself between my legs. _YESSSSSS._

"Edward," I whisper, encouraging him with tiny kisses to his lips and face. "Yes."

That's all the coaxing he needs, because the next thing I know, I'm filled with him. "God, yes." _I think that was both of us._

We're still for a moment or two as we breathe and kiss. Finally, he starts to move within me. I'm biting my lips, humming and moaning as I push back against him, lifting my hips. I dig my fingers into his sides, shifting my legs up and around his waist. The angle does wonders because I suddenly feel very close to breaking (in a good way).

"A little harder," I request, and he complies. _Oh, does he comply. I welcome tomorrow's soreness. _But then, my sweaty, naked back rubs gainst the pleather-covered padding on the floor starts making those damn plastic-fart noises. He stops completely, and we stare at each other for a long second before both exploding in a fit of laughter. Somehow, I am more turned on than before.

Easily, we pick back up with an extremely sloppy kiss that I continue to laugh through until he growls and pinches my bottom lip between his teeth. Fortunately, I find this hot as fuck, so I trade laughs for moaning. It's getting pretty loud and steamy in this Land Rover, and I briefly wonder if it's rocking. A huge smile weaves its way across my face, which is fine, since it's also appropriate for the sexing. Edward works his lips from my neck to behind my ear and back to my lips, mumbling all sorts of sexy nonsequiturs. I think I hear something about beautiful, freesia strawberries and chocolate brown pools? I can't really process it because I'm teetering on the edge of pure bliss.

And I might be moaning really loud. Like, _really_ loud. It's a good thing he fastens his mouth to mine and basically swallows the sound, because my orgasm ricochets through me and I might've broken the sound barrier otherwise. Thank God he's right behind me, but far enough that I can focus on his face as he curses a blue streak through his own climax. It's so fucking hot, I can't even call him beautiful anymore; it's beyond beauty.

I lift my head up to kiss him as we both come down. _Hahahaha... CUM DOWN. Jesus, I think Edward knocked a screw loose._

_..._

_I'ma leave that one alone._

"Wow." He's so eloquent. I laugh at him, bringing my hand to his chin. "That..."

"Yeah." Damn, I'm pretty eloquent, myself.

We just kind of breathe in each others' faces for a few, smiling all post-coital glowy and whatnot as he moves to lay on his side. I turn to face him. He plants a kiss on my lips and leans his forehead against mine. "I really don't want to go back, but I think I've surpassed my twenty-minute break by a few."

I snort. _Yep. Classy and eloquent. That's me._ "Way surpassed. Maybe you're fired, and you should just come to bed with me," I suggest. "You need to sleep, then get up and have more breakfast with me. I make a mean Honey Nut Cheerios."

He laughs and looks at his wristwatch. "Well, it's after five and my shift ends at six."

His phone is in the front seat and beeps, as if on cue. I enjoy the view of Edward's naked ass as he leans over into the front to grab it. "It's Emmett."

He tips the screen to show me the text.

**gess i wuz rong, huh? 3 minutes? 4? don't cum back, scumbag.**

"I guess I can stay," he says, not looking at me. "If you were—"

I grab his face with both hands. "Serious, Edward. Stay." I'm worried I might sound a little desperate, but he smiles at this and kisses me again, so I'm in the clear. We start getting dressed and semi-cleaned up enough to get out of the car and head inside. I start thinking about another breakfast in several hours (after actually sleeping and maybe some more sex) and remember something. I giggle.

"What?" He asks as we walk toward the door, his arm around my shoulders. _Aww. Just don't trip. Legs are a little jello-y, but you can make it a hundred feet._

"I was just thinking about the breakfast for later."

"Yeah?"

"I have a bowl full of ripe oranges and a juicer."

He stops, turns and looks at me, his eyes burning holes through mine. I think I may spontaneously orgasm.

"You know," I continue, unlocking the door, "A little freshly squeezed for the freshly fucked."


	2. Anniversary?

**Written for Kassiah's birthday blog: a short future-take ... xoxo  


* * *

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**EPOV  
**  
I smell orange juice. Freshly squeezed, of course. And bacon.

_Fuck. I forgot._

Every year, she makes a huge-ass plate of bacon, a bacon shake, and a fuckton of freshly squeezed orange juice. I really love my wife, but _holy motherfucking hell_ she's gonna fry my ass if she finds out I forgot our anniversary.

I feel like a total asshole—I could've sworn it was _next_ week, and knowing I am not the first guy to do this does not make me feel better. We've been fighting all week because I've been working late and she thinks it's funny to ask if I'm cheating on her, which makes me really pissy. She doesn't really think I am, but she knows how mad I get when she insinuates shit like that.

I think that's her way of angling for angry make-up sex. _Damn, she's crafty. I so fucking love her._

Keeping my eyes closed, I spin my brain for an idea. Anything. How on earth do I show her I remember everything about us? Okay, except anniversaries, apparently. _I'm a dude, okay? No matter how many times Emmett tries to convince people otherwise._

Suddenly, something strikes me like a lightning bolt. I sit up and nearly start clapping like a five-year-old. I get out of bed quietly as I can, running into the closet and pushing all my shirts back as I dig for my favorite. At the very back, I grip the fabric and yank it off the hanger.

Even after seven years, it still has a monster stain from the orange juice she spilled all over me the morning after that night at Denny's. I'd walked up behind her as she was pouring two glasses of freshly-squeezed. I freshly squeezed her ass, and the next thing I knew I was covered in sweet, sticky citrus. I laughed and licked the pulp off my fingers, but she was so embarrassed, she felt the need to distract me by going down right then and there. I came embarrassingly fast. I nearly told her I was really only fifteen and wouldn't call the cops. Alice, however, did actually threaten to call the cops for scarring her, as she'd walked in on us.

I still don't understand why she teased me for saving the shirt. It's not funny to call me "Monica LeWankski." Emmett disagrees, but that prick would. I _did_ wash the fucking thing, but apparently my laundry skills blow. I managed to set the stain _just right_. She once tried to make that one of my share of household chores, but after seeing my lack of talent in said department, she won't even let me buy the detergent.

Slipping the shirt on, I neglect to button it up (in hopes that it won't stay on very long anyway) and head out to the kitchen. I realize I'm only wearing boxers with it, but a carefully selected ensemble is not the point. _Fuck! Ensemble? I've been __listening to__ overhearing Alice on calls with clients way too often._

Bella is humming away as she cooks, as she often does—one of the many things I love about her. Especially given the fact that she does not hum random melodies or Snow White-esque songs. She hums eighties hair-metal. For serious. Currently, I'm being treated to Bellazak version of "Rock You Like a Hurricane," complete with sound effects for musical interludes.

_"Mmm! Mmm! Mmmmm! Der-nert! DER-NER-NERT! MMMM mmm mmm mmm MMM-MM-MMMMMMM!"_

I manage to smother the laugh that's threatening to unceremoniously and prematurely announce my presence. I'm safe, and continue to watch her nostalgic performance, her hips swaying wildly back and forth to the beat of her own drummer (obviously) as she beats the eggs into submission.

_Wait, eggs? That's odd. She never makes eggs with the traditional anniversary breakfast. Are my parents coming over? Did I suffer a massive head injury? Is Emmett here, demanding a smorgasbord?_

I decide to forget about it when my eyes land back on her ass, noting the way it curves (i.e., the way it fits perfectly in my hands). I manage to get right up behind her before sliding my hands around her waist, flattening my palms against her stomach. She freezes, and bizarrely, it takes her a minute to reply, but she moves my hands up to her breasts before she does. I'm totally fine with this.

"Holy snozzberries, Edward, you scared the crap outta me," she says finally, settling back into me. "But not literally, obviously, because that's eight shades of nasty."

I chuckle, pressing kisses against the nape of her neck, working up to her ear.

"I _am_ a sweet-talker," she continues, apparently having her own conversation now. "I'm surprised you don't jump me more often, what with all my favorite fart jokes and inappropriately-timed sexual segues."

Without speaking, I spin her around to face me, diving right in for a good-morning kiss. She tastes like freshly-squeezed orange juice. _Fuck me, that's good._

I reluctantly release her lips, and she whimpers. "You're such a great kisser, I don't even care that you obviously didn't brush your teeth yet — HEY! Are you wearing the Monica LeWank—"

I totally can't help the lopsided smirk I throw at her, noting her own dazzling grin as she points at me. Her face is heating up in that BellaBlush™ as I lift her by her hips to rest on the end of the counter away from all her preparations. Ducking down, I work her tiny sleep-shorts and panties down her legs as she gasps.

"Omigod, please remind me to clean this counter later," she rambles, panting and white-knuckling the edge (I hope it's in anticipation).

I purposefully ignore her impulse to clean when I'm very obviously preparing to get dirty at the moment. Kneeling and finding myself at the perfect height for _returning the favor_, as they say, I shift her legs over my shoulders, sliding my fingers (what I hope is) tantalizingly up her outer thighs.

She moans unevenly—a sound I fucking _love_, by the way. It tells me what I do to her, that she's unraveling ... even if it does somewhat resemble an odd attempt at a Tarzan call.

"Guh ... 'ward ... are you not gonna say anything? I mean, uh ..." Her speech is disjointed, as though she's fighting giving herself over. That kind of worries me, but I continue my seduction plans by placing wet, open-mouthed kisses on each thigh, closer and closer to the ultimate destination.

Another unsteady warble erupts, but this time she laughs at herself. _How could I not love this woman?_ "Dammit, baby," she whines, her tone still tinged with amusement. "I was trying to surprise _you_ this morning. I have news ..."

The way she trailed off at the end stop me cold. She said "surprise" so it couldn't be anything bad, could it? Or maybe she's trying to soften the blow. What the hell could it be? She wouldn't divorce me on our anniversary would she?

"STOP IT." Forcefully, she tips my chin up to look at her. "You're overthinking it, man! You're a doctor, not a mind-reader!"

Involuntarily, I grin like an idiot. _She_ makes me do that, and it's much more than just her horrible Star Trek impressions.

"Now get up here," she directs, pulling at my shoulders. I try to ignore she is totally bottomless, and wearing a skimpy, thin tank top. Impossible. "Continue by looking at my face and not my tits or my cooter."

My eyes instantly snap to her face. "Did you seriously just call—"

"Cooter, Edward," she chastises me. _Me._ "I've said it before, I'll say it again. Cooter. It's like pussy, but nicer for certain conversations."

_Snort._

"Fine," I sigh, smiling at my wife's brand of humor. "So what do you need to tell me?"

I can't help it, but my stomach is suddenly churning and my mind is racing. _Don't make me wait all day, woman, I'm at half mast, you're naked and smelling of delicious citrus nectars and bacon, and I'm not sure if you're gonna tell me something terrifying or incredibly fuckawesome._

"I'm pregnant."

_Holy shit, it's both. Terrifying AND fuckawesome. I never thought it possible._

I stare at her, my face hanging blank and shocked. She's half-smiling, half making that "is he pissed or happy?" face. Now, she's starting to wonder if I heard her. _ANSWER, JACKASS!_

I shake my head to break the mental deadlock. "Are you ... you're ... seriously?"

She raises an eyebrow first, then raises a hand to slap me in the face. No joke.

I blink a few times. "Yeah, thanks. Needed that. Really? I mean ... wow. Really?" A grin that could hardly be described as shit-eating (_I mean, come on—who would smile while eating shit?_), or any other "really big smile" phrase, plasters itself across my face. It's finally hitting me, and while I'm still a little petrified at the thought of us becoming parents, I'm so amazed, the fear doesn't matter. "There's a baby in here _right now_."

I bring my hands to her stomach, wondering if that's why she froze when I put my hands there earlier.

She cackles, completely amused. "Yes, Doctor. According to three boxes of pregnancy tests, there definitely should be — I mean, that is typically what pregnancy entails. Did they not teach you this in med school? Was this an accredited institution or did you mail in cereal box tops?"

"Bella," I warn, stemming her comedy tirade.

"I tease because I love," she sighs. "And because you're an easy target. OH, and I made an appointment with the crotch doc next week."

Eying her, I raise an eyebrow as she winks. "Crotch doc?"

"Don't be offended; you're in neuro. You're a brain doc."

I love that my wife refers to my profession so casually. No, really; I do. "And you're a scribbler who'll one day get the Nobel Prize for Literature," I tease, leaning my forehead against hers. "Married to a brain doc. I wonder what our kid will be?"

She smiles widely with anticipation and glee. "A right headcase, it would seem."

A loud laugh peals out of me, and I can't refrain from kissing her over and over. "God, I love you," I tell her in a rush of breath, gathering her in my arms. "This is awesome. Really. Just ... wow."

Nuzzling into her neck, I just take a moment to smell her. _Her_. Just Bella underneath the hunger-inducing food smells.

"You're totally freaked, aren't you?" She asks, giggling into my ear.

"A lot, yeah," I admit, pulling back to look at her and nodding. "Honestly, though, I'm more in awe than anything. And happy. Definitely happy."

She beams, bouncing a little bit.

"OOH!" she squeals, then snickers. "I totally forgot I'm ridin' bareback on the counter, here."

"There _was_ a reason for that," I remind her, leaning in closer to kiss her lips gently. "A really good reason."

Her hands move to hold my face, her thumbs gently grazing my lips. I dart the tip of my tongue out and lick.

"Tease," she accuses quietly.

Kissing her again, I remind her, "I'm not a tease if I intend to follow up."

Her deep brown eyes sparkle as she drops her hands to my shoulders. "Then by all means, Dr. Cullen, get to work."

With one last kiss, I descend slowly, trailing my hands down her sides and over her hips, reclaiming my previous position. I slip my arms under her legs, cupping my hands around her hips to hold her in place (she likes to wiggle).

Turning my head to one side, I return to my initial warm up along the insides of her thighs. Wiggling her ass (_see? I told you_), she also emits a low whine, and I know she's impatient. "Edwarrrrd ... celebratory Ohhhhhh!"

I nearly lose my composure and start cracking up, but somehow manage to maintain and work my way inward at my own, maddeningly slow pace. Gripping her ass, I move forward, pressing my tongue flat against her. I lick and pulse, suck and nibble ever so lightly. Maybe it's just the orange juice I tasted when I kissed her, but I swear she tastes a little sweeter on these lips than I'm used to. She lets out a guttural moan and starts mumbling incoherently, though I do think I heard something about "best tongue" and "husband." I'll draw my own conclusions there.

I work for a little while, and as usual, she squirms against me, but grips my hair like she's riding a bronco. I know that to be a really good sign, so I begin to hum as I swirl, kiss, suck. The vibrations kick up the speed of bringing her to the brink, and though her legs are acting as earmuffs, I'm pretty sure I hear "ONE MORE! ONE! MORE TIME! FOR THE WIN!"

I'm not going to pretend I understand _that_ exactly, but Bella sometimes spouts pure crazy when she orgasms. It's a huge plus for me. I like to say she's speaking in tongues because sex with me is a religious experience. _Well, _she_ laughs._

Her feet lock behind me and I know she's chewing on her lips because her sounds are even more obscured. Retrieving one hand from her hips, I slip two fingers inside her and she bucks.

"YES! HOME RUN! FIELD GOAL! GODDAMN DESSERT!"

Twisting my fingers to find that spot, I double my efforts, pulsing the tip of my tongue on the love button (_I didn't name it that; she did. I swear!_). She breaks, her thighs clenching around my ears as her entire body tenses and relaxes in shuddering waves. I can only hear pieces of her verbal rant.

"Son of BITCHCRACKING ... mothercrapping ... holy fuckballs ... so hungry ..."

I continue working her as she rides it out, coming down slowly. Her hands release my hair—which I'm sure looks even more ridiculous than my normal bedhead— and lightly sweep over my cheeks. She's still panting, but I push up off my knees and kiss my way up her torso until I'm face to face with her.

"Goddamn, Edward," she nearly wheezes. "You are too fucking good at that."

Kissing along her neck and jaw, I smile—a little smug, if I'm being honest. "Happy anniversary, baby," I whisper in her ear.

She freezes. "Oh, shit," she groans. "I thought it was next week?"


End file.
